Northern Exposures
by Ms.Teragram
Summary: Shawn and Lassiter travel north to repossess a yacht and discover more than they bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Northern Exposures, Chapter 1/5

**Rating:** NC-17 for M/M oral sex

**Pairings:** Shawn/Lassiter.

**Warning:** Shassie Slash.

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary: **Shawn and Lassiter travel north to repossess a yacht and discover more than they bargained for.

**Note: **Written for the Livejournal Journeystory Big Bang challenge.

Chief Vick was exasperated. "I am _not_ sending my head detective on a three day trip for a simple asset forfeiture." She slapped her palm onto her desk and glared angrily at Lassiter, transferring it to Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster as they entered, in case they considered taking his side.

"But there could be evidence on that craft," Lassiter insisted. "Vital evidence that Emilio Vargas doesn't want us to find." Since his conviction for drug trafficking, items Vargas had purchased with the proceeds of his drug business were being confiscated by the police and sold at auction. Lassiter had been coveting Vargas' yacht since it was first mentioned in the interview transcripts, six months ago. That cruiser might go for a song, and Lassiter could already picture himself fishing from it off the coast of Santa Barbara.

"That possibility doesn't justify sending you to Eureka," Vick said. "You're of more use to me here."

Lassiter frowned. Picking up the yacht himself was an essential part of his plan. If he couldn't buy it before the auction, he could at least use the two-day trip as a test drive to figure out his maximum bid when it came under the gavel. It was a win-win scenario. If only Vick could be convinced.

"Lassie's right," Shawn chimed in. He put a hand to his temple, "I have a strong impression that Vargas used that boat to transport drugs."

"I don't need your help, Spencer," Lassiter growled and glanced at Shawn out of the corner of his eye. The psychic was wearing a lime green t-shirt that was so wrinkled Lassiter wondered if it had been manufactured that way. Coupled with his tousled hair, the man looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. The thought made Lassiter picture Shawn in bed, an image that he quickly pushed back into the depths of his subconscious. The situation was dire enough without adding in the Spencer issue.

Chief Vick caught both the glimpse and the grimace. It was evident to her that he felt Shawn's support would hurt, rather than help his argument. Looking up at Lassiter's tense face, she wondered how her head detective could still be so stubbornly hostile toward their consultant. Despite the number of times the psychic had come through for them, Lassiter just wouldn't budge an inch. She glanced at a brochure on her desk for a team-building retreat outside Fresno. For several weeks now she'd been thinking that some forced bonding time with Mr. Spencer was exactly what Lassiter needed. And a ten-hour drive to Eureka, followed by two days on the ocean was probably just as good as trust-building exercises in Fresno. It might be even better if it had a chance of getting them more leverage on Vargas.

"Fine." Vick said, and a malevolent smile ghosted across her lips, "If there's evidence on that boat we'd better send someone who can find it, wherever Mr. Vargas might have hidden it."

Lassiter's head snapped up, and his eyes went wide with panic.

"Spencer can't come!" He spoke before he realized the decision wasn't his to make. "I mean," he amended, "I don't think we need a psychic." He spat out the last word as offensively as he felt he could get away with, moving his jaw as if tasting something nasty.

"Come on!" Shawn said cheerfully, moving a foot further into Lassiter's personal space. "I'm great on road trips. We'll sing songs and play games. I'll bring all the good snacks. And having me along will cut your driving time in half. Easy breezy property-seizey"

"Either Mr. Spencer goes with you, or nobody goes," Vick said finally. She smiled to herself. Lassiter could be such a pain in the ass sometimes; it served him right to have to put up with Mr. Spencer for three days. Plus, she had some money left in the budget that needed to be spent before the end of the fiscal year if she didn't want to see her budget for next year cut. Paying his fee wouldn't be a problem.

Lassiter's face fell as his vision of two days of relaxed fishing on Vargas's yacht disintegrated before his eyes.

"Fine," he muttered. "Spencer can come."

"Eureka is a nice destination," Gus said pleasantly, trying to lighten the mood. "They have a kinetic sculpture race in May, Chicken Wingfest in September, and Mushroomfest in the fall."

Shawn looked at Gus with disappointment in his eyes. "Mushroomfest? Really Gus?" Although now that he thought about it, Wingfest sounded pretty good.

"Sequoia Park Zoo is there too," Gus added. When Shawn and Lassiter stared questioningly at him, he added. "It's California's oldest zoo."

"Nobody wants to see animals that old, Gus." Shawn pictured a herd of two-hundred year old zebra, their skin wrinkly and saggy, and shuddered.

"This isn't a sight-seeing trip," Lassiter said. "We're investigating one of the biggest drug trafficking rings ever busted in Santa Barbara." He smiled, proud of having had a hand in bringing in Vargas.

"Why are drug traffickers always a ring?" Shawn asked. Lassiter ignored his question, turned, and left the office.

"Sometimes they're a chain," Gus pointed out. "If Vargas cuts a deal they can move up the chain to whomever Vargas works for."

"The odds of that happening aren't very good," Chief Vick said, thinking back to their interviews with him. The man was belligerent, and uncooperative. Of course if Lassiter and Spencer really _did_ find some more evidence in Eureka, Vargas might change his tune.

"With us on the case," Shawn said, "those odds just doubled. Maybe tripled." He looked at Gus. "Although that depends, really on how low she thinks they were to begin with, doesn't it? You're the one that's good with math."

"We should go," Gus said, observing that Chief Vick's patience was running out.

Shawn, noticing Vick's furrowed forehead, agreed. "Yeah," he said. "We should go."

Gus waited until the two of them were back in the Psych office to raise his question. He didn't understand Shawn's sudden interest in taking a ten-hour car ride north followed by a two-day boat trip with Lassiter. He was sure Shawn _had_ a reason, and he was sure that reason would include why he hadn't invited Gus along. But he needed to figure out how to broach the subject without coming across as clingy. He could certainly go for three days without Shawn around, he assured himself. He might even be able to get some long-postponed tasks done around the office. He just wanted to understand why he would be doing them alone.

Gus leaned back against the cool imitation leather of his favourite armchair, and watched Shawn stride around the office, his eyes gleaming, looking for things to pack.

"It's a long drive to Eureka," Gus said finally. If his memory of having gone to Mushroomfest with his family when he was eleven was correct, Eureka was 592 miles north of Santa Barbara.

"Exactly!" Shawn pointed a finger at him and smiled enthusiastically. "That is _exactly_ my point. I love how we're so sim patio on this."

"I think you mean simpatico," Gus said. Sim patio sounded like some kind of computer game where he designed his own veranda. He shook his head. "But even if you do, we aren't. I have no idea why you think this trip is a good plan."

"The answer is Maninblue42." Shawn went to Gus' laptop, and Gus leaped from his chair to intercept him.

"Shawn," he said sternly, "What have I told you about using my laptop to hook up with guys? You wouldn't believe the messed-up emails I still get as a direct result of your debacle on !"

Shawn detoured around Gus, grabbed the laptop, and held it just out of his friend's frantic reach while he brought up a webpage.

"No, Dude! Look at the profile," Shawn pointed the screen at him. "Maninblue42. It's Lassie."

Gus peered at the page Shawn had opened. It was, as he had feared, on an adult match site.

"That's not Lassiter." Gus stood and surveyed his friend sadly. Shawn's hopeless obsession with the detective had clearly led him off the path of logic into the dense forest of wishful thinking. Admittedly, the man in the picture did have a generous amount of chest hair peeking out of his dress shirt, but since the photo ended at the neck there was no way of positively identifying him.

"It is," Shawn insisted. "Look, it says he's a cop living in the Santa Barbara area, his age is right, he describes himself as tall, and—and this is really the most awesome part—he uses the term 'bi-curious.' It's perfect. I want to sleep with him, he's batting for both teams, and now we're going on a three-day trip alone together. It's synchronicity."

Gus considered pointing out that it hardly counted as synchronicity when Shawn weasled his way into accompanying Lassiter, but he decided to take another approach.

"The Santa Barbara area has thousands of police officers," he pointed out. "This could be any one of them."

"It's Lassie," Shawn persisted. "I'm sure of it. And if he wants to play Curious George, I'm willing to wear a yellow fedora and—"

"First of all," Gus cut in, "The man in the yellow hat is probably wearing a ten gallon Stetson. But even so, kindly refrain from dragging a beloved series of children's books into your sexual fantasy. Second of all, even if this were Lassiter's profile—which I'm not saying it is—he doesn't like you very much, Shawn. Why would he want to sleep with you?"

"I've got a good feeling about this," Shawn said. He put his hands to his head. "I sense this is our time."

"Uh, you _do_ remember that I know you're not actually psychic, right?" Gus asked.

"I don't have to be psychic to read Lassie's mind," Shawn said. "He's been getting physical with me Olivia Newton-John style from the moment I started working with him."

"He's been slamming you into walls and putting you in headlocks," Gus pointed out. "In what world is that sexual?"

"Picture us in leather," Shawn suggested. "Does that help?"

"He's using the only method he knows will keep you from contaminating his crime scenes," Gus objected. "Frankly, I'm amazed he hasn't shot you."

"And," Shawn continued, ignoring Gus's argument, "I've caught him checking me out a couple of times now." Shawn smiled and stretched lasciviously. "He totally wants my bod."

"Riiiight." Gus wasn't convinced, and did nothing to hide the fact. "In case you're wrong, which I'm pretty sure you are, you might want to take your health insurance details with you, for when you make a move on Lassiter and he punches you in the nose."

Carlton Lassiter walked into the equipment room of the Santa Barbara Athletic Club and stepped onto a treadmill to begin his morning workout. He inserted the earbuds of his MP3 player and began to run in time to the disco beat of Stayin' Alive. The song made him feel fifteen again, which wasn't an entirely anxiety-free experience. He tried to remain focused on the treadmill's tiny display reporting his speed, heart rate and calories burned, but found his mind wandering.

_Why does Spencer want to come to Eureka? _He wondered. _Apart from the man's compulsive need to push himself into every police case, I mean. _Lassiter considered the possibility that Shawn had his own sights set on the yacht, but quickly rejected it. _Spencer doesn't know a cruiser from a dingy_.

There were many things about Shawn Spencer that Lassiter didn't understand. One of these was why Chief Vick insisted they work with him when the man was clearly a professional liar. Another was how Spencer was getting his information. Lassiter had investigated several avenues, but they'd all come up dry. He didn't seem to be getting outside help. But if there was something underhanded at work—and Lassiter was 99% sure there was—he would discover it eventually. As a kid he'd seen David Copperfield levitate a woman on television, and he hadn't rested until he'd learned how he did it. Spencer's bag of tricks couldn't be any better. _Whatever he's got up his sleeve, I'll figure it out,_ Lassiter assured himself.

The most grating part of the whole hoax was Spencer's success. Whatever he was doing, it worked. Ridiculous playacting aside, he got the job done—sometimes in a way that made Lassiter feel distinctly inferior.

_I solved plenty of crimes before Spencer came along_, he thought defensively.

Lassiter jabbed a button on the treadmill and increased his pace as Survivor's Eye of the Tiger began to play. He'd never been afraid of competition. It was a healthy way to bring out the best in people. In the academy he'd enjoyed the contest between himself and Nick Conforth. Putting in maximum effort had never been a problem for him. But effort didn't seem to matter against Spencer. No matter how hard he tried, the fake psychic always pulled some last-minute move that won the day. Of course it was easier for people like Spencer, since they didn't have to think about little details like procedure, chain of custody, or how things would look in a court of law.

As Lassiter's sneakered feet beat out a fast pace on the treadmill it occurred to him that he would have developed a begrudging respect for Spencer by now if it hadn't been for the _other_ issue. Initially he'd been watching Spencer like a hawk because he was looking for evidence against him. After a while, however, he'd noticed that his gaze followed the psychic without his even thinking about it. And their physical altercations, which at first had simply been an extension of their battle of wills, had gradually taken on a sexually charged element. A few times he'd caught himself admiring Spencer's ass. It was when he began to daydream about kissing Spencer's neck that the panic set in. First the man had invaded the station and undermined Lassiter's work life, and now he was perverting his sexual fantasies.

_Damn you, Spencer_, Lassiter thought, _why did you have to dredge all this up again?_

Beads of sweat ran down his neck and he pushed himself to keep pace, breathing hard, feeling his muscles itch and burn. It wasn't just being attracted to another man that was evoking his heterosexual panic. He'd spent six months in college accepting that he'd developed a crush on his criminology professor, Dr. Urquhart. The man was brilliant, and gorgeous, and he'd treated Lassiter more like a colleague than a student. Although Lassiter hadn't pursued it, the attraction had forced him to face some facts about himself—namely that his sexuality wasn't as straight as his target shooting. But then he'd graduated and met Victoria, and packed it all away in the back of his mind, along with his love of figure skating. Now Spencer had him completely on edge with his suggestive moves and lack of personal space.

_And that sweet fucking ass of his._

He punched a few buttons, slowing the treadmill and jogged lightly as his breathing and heart rate returned to normal. His muscles felt a combination of pain and relief as he stepped off the machine. Given the way Spencer talked and acted, Lassiter felt comfortable laying the blame for his current sexual crisis at the consultant's door. Yet he was pretty certain that Spencer wasn't flirting with intent. The man was a total skirt chaser, and there was no way he could know the effect he was having. At least Lassiter could be grateful for that.

_If I could just get this gay thing out of my system,_ he thought wistfully, _I could get my focus back._

He'd taken steps to do exactly that. He'd been careful of course, making sure that his online profile didn't include any conclusive identifiers. Yet it had been two weeks now and he couldn't bring himself to respond to anyone. The emails he'd received in response to his ad were sleazy and off-putting to him. Some had even included explicit photos and descriptions of sex acts which sounded about as exciting as a colonoscopy. He told himself that the whole experiment was like fishing. There was nothing wrong with throwing a catch back if it wasn't what you were after. But some part of him wondered if he wasn't so much interested in men as he was interested in _particular_ men. Was Spencer another Dr. Urquhart?

Lassiter shut off the treadmill and wiped his face with a hand towel, wondering how he was going to make it through a ten-hour car ride with Spencer, let along a two-day sea trip.

_Whatever happens,_ he decided, _I have to keep my distance_.

Juliet O'Hara stirred her coffee angrily, and muttered to herself as she stared at the stack of paperwork in her In box. Walking by, Henry Spencer paused at her desk.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

Juliet stilled her spoon and looked up at him. Henry didn't often reach out to her like this, and she thought it was sweet of him to care.

"Thanks for asking, Henry." She smiled wanly and waved a hand at Lassiter's empty desk. "I have to drop Carlton off in Eureka so I can drive his car back," she said, her annoyance leaking into her tone. "That's like, a ten and a half hour trip, there and back, and I still have a ton of paperwork to do. I haven't even started the report on that series of arsons in Samarkand." She gestured helplessly at the forms before her.

"You volunteered for a drive that long?" Henry asked, casually.

"No." She took a sip of her coffee, found it too hot, and set the mug back on the desk. "Carlton just assumed I'd go." Although her partner _was_ head detective, she didn't care for the offhanded manner in which he'd assigned her the task. They'd had their share of conflicts in the past, but lately it seemed as if Lassiter was particularly grouchy and irritable. Although she hadn't been brought up to say such things out loud, more than a few times she'd thought he really needed to get laid.

"He shouldn't have assumed that," Henry said with feeling. "You didn't become detective so you could chauffeur people around."

"Exactly," She relaxed, having found an ally in her grievance. After all, it wasn't as if she didn't have her own work to do. In fact, in addition to her regular workload she was still combing through stacks of documents taken from Vargas's many properties, looking for anything that might help them get a handle on him. It wasn't glamorous, but it was the kind of slow patient work that sometimes paid off.

Henry shrugged. "If you want to drive to Eureka and back by yourself, be my guest," he said. "But if I were you, I'd have better things to do with my time."

"You're right." Her eyes brightened and her face took on a determined look. She was a detective, not some rookie. She refused to be the cop who made coffee and got the assignments that no one else wanted. "I'm going to tell Carlton he can just forget about it. I am not a taxi service."

"Good for you." Henry smiled and bumped her outstretched fist with his own.

She turned back to her reports, feeling better than she had all week. When she confronted Lassiter later that day, she expected an argument. Everything seemed to be an argument with him lately. But he took the news surprisingly well.

"Looks like we won't need you after all," he said. "Henry's willing to drive us."

"That's great," Juliet said. While she was relieved, the feeling that she had been played was growing with each passing moment. Henry's motive, if he had one, was still unclear to her. She cornered him in the break room.

"Carlton tells me you're driving him and Shawn to Eureka," She said, trying to keep her temper in check. "What happened to 'I have better things to do with my time'?"

"I said 'If I were you.' I'm not you." Henry smiled without a trace of guilt on his face, and for the first time Juliet could see the family resemblance to Shawn. "I, for example know that there's a great tackle shop on the way to Eureka, and if I take the Dutcher Creek Road off Route 101, I can stay overnight at Lake Sonoma on the way back. I could be fishing by dawn."

Juliet crossed her arms. "That's not fair. You tricked me."

Henry shrugged. "Fair don't mean squat when it comes to fishing."

Juliet, no slouch in the fishing department herself, nodded to acknowledge the truth of his words.

"Fine. It's yours," she waved a hand in surrender. Chief Vick had hired Henry to work with their consultants, and keeping Carlton and Shawn from strangling each other on a long car ride definitely fell within his purview. Given how sneaky he'd been about getting the assignment, Henry deserved what he was getting. She smiled. "Enjoy your very long drive with Mr. Grumpy and Mr. Silly."

Henry laughed. "Silly wasn't one of the dwarves."

"Mr. Silly and Mr. Grumpy are characters from the Mr. Men books." She shrugged and shook her head. "I don't really know the seven dwarves. I've only seen Snow White once and the woodsman scene made me cry."

"That's ridiculous!" Henry blurted out. He saw heads turn in the bullpen and lowered his voice. "I saw Snow White in the theatre in 1958. I was four. The woodsman was twenty feet tall, but I wasn't scared, because he's clearly the good guy. He saves Snow White from the evil queen."

"What about the prince?" Juliet's forehead wrinkled in concentration. She barely remembered the movie, but she was pretty sure Prince Charming was the hero.

"The prince? Oh Please!" Henry scoffed. "He comes in at the end and takes all the credit. He's no different than those stuffed shirts down at city hall." Henry crossed his arms and glared at her, as if daring her to continue the argument. Juliet thought about Shawn and Lassiter spending ten hours in the car with Henry and almost felt sorry for them.


	2. Chapter 2

"What? No! Henry can't go!" Shawn whined. It was barely dawn, but thanks to several phone calls and a visit from Gus, Shawn had managed to arrive on time, suitcase in hand, only to find his father sitting in the passenger seat. "And I called shotgun yesterday in the file room. Come on, Lassie, back me up here. You remember that, right?"

"If you mean when I caught you snooping through the Vargas file, then yes, I _do_ remember that," Lassiter said coolly. "But if it's a choice between sitting next to a grown-up and sitting next to you, I'll take Henry." While part of him would have liked to keep Shawn where he could see him, Lassiter knew he would be a distraction if he got too close. And sitting next to him for ten hours was closer than he could handle right now.

He hefted Shawn's suitcase into the trunk of the Crown Vic. "Besides, Henry has to come with us," he said. "Otherwise, who'll drive my car back to Santa Barbara?"

"We could leave it with the detachment in Eureka," Shawn suggested.

Lassiter looked at Shawn warily. "What? As a gift?"

"You don't know what he's like in a car," Shawn warned, glancing anxiously toward the vehicle. "Trust me. You want no part of long distance driving with him."

"I'm not a child, Spencer," Lassiter slammed the trunk closed. "I can handle Henry."

As they cruised north along Highway 101, the smooth relaxing tones of Vic Damone coming from the CD player, Shawn leaned forward and crowded against the back of Lassiter's seat. The detective was freshly shaven, and the scent of his cologne was going right to Shawn's head, and other areas. He marvelled at how precisely Lassiter had trimmed his sideburns, and reached out to slide a finger along the man's jawline. Lassiter turned, suddenly aware of Shawn's proximity. His response was nothing like the secret smile Shawn would have liked to share with him.

"What the hell are you doing, Spencer?" he demanded. "Never distract the driver!"

"Relax." Shawn reached out and touched the spot on Lassiter's jaw again. "I'm looking at your aura. And your oddly precise sideburns. What do you use, some kind of clipper system?"

Lassiter's left hand left the wheel long enough to slap Shawn away and rub the spot by his ear where Shawn had touched him, as if trying to obliterate the memory.

"I use a Wahl," he said finally. Then, wondering how Spencer managed to snuggle so close to him, he added, "Are you wearing a seatbelt back there? So help me, Spencer if we get pulled over _you_ are paying the fine!"

"Shawn, sit back in your seat and keep your hands to yourself," Henry said firmly.

"Thank-you," Lassiter said, relieved. The last thing he needed was Shawn's wayward hands sliding over him while he was trying to concentrate. He could think of few things more embarrassing than getting an erection under the current circumstances.

"And Carlton, I don't want to hear any more of these damn Vic Damone songs," Henry switched the stereo to a talk radio station. "He makes me feel like I'm in a scene from The Godfather, and the guy in the front passenger seat always get whacked."

Lassiter sighed. It was going to be a long drive.

Lassiter pulled the Crown Vic off route 101 and toward the Humbolt Bay port, just west of Eureka, where several hundred boats were docked. Shawn and Lassiter barely had their gear out of the vehicle before Henry was honking goodbye and pulling onto the tarmac, headed for Lake Sonoma. Lassiter felt his stomach tighten as he realized he was now alone with Shawn for the next two and a half days. He removed his sunglasses and stepped into the harbourmaster's office.

While Shawn toyed with a red and white floatation ring, Lassiter showed his badge and his paperwork to the harbourmaster, signed a custody form, and led the way to the slip that Emilio Vargas had been renting for the past eight years. Even to Shawn, who did not feel the call of the sea, Vargas's yacht was a beautiful sight. It gleamed brilliantly white in the late afternoon sun.

Shawn set his suitcase down on the dock and looked at the shiny cabin cruiser, its pointy nose promising intoxicating speed.

"Wow," he said. "That's a pretty sweet boat. I can totally see Crockett and Tubbs chasing down the bad guy in it, their hair and white linen suit jackets flapping in the wind." He smiled up at the vessel.

"It's a yacht, Spencer," Lassiter corrected him, setting his luggage and fishing gear onto the dock. "It's a 55-footer cabin cruiser with a 500 horsepower twin diesel engine, and it sleeps four." He smiled. "And thanks to the California Control of Profits of Organized Crime Act, it's all ours." And by 'ours,' of course he meant his. Almost his, anyway.

"Well let's find us some evidence then!" Using the sideboard ladder for leverage, Shawn eagerly propelled himself onto the deck of the stern and headed for the cabin door.

"Not so fast." Lassiter leaped after him, grabbed a fistful of the back of his t-shirt, and slammed him chest-first against the exterior cabin wall, hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. Shawn might be eager to find evidence, but Lassiter had read Vargas' file a dozen times, and this guy was dangerous. Shawn had no idea what he might be walking into. And if Lassiter's pinning tackle was more sexually charged than usual, that wasn't at all because he enjoyed the feel of his body against him.

"Stand down, Spencer. We have no idea what we're dealing with yet." His voice was low and rough, but he hoped Shawn would interpret that as annoyance not lust.

"Does it involve a large container of Astroglide?" Shawn asked. Lassiter couldn't see his eyes, but he knew they'd have that mischievous twinkle they got whenever Shawn was being particularly smart mouthed.

Lassiter released his hold just enough for Shawn to turn around.

"Nobody goes in that cabin until I give the all clear." He stepped back, but kept Shawn pinned against the wall with a hand pressed firmly against his sternum. Lassiter could feel Shawn's heart pounding. He nodded toward the cabin. "I'm going in there first," he said firmly. "Alone."

"Your Jedi mind tricks won't work on me," Shawn countered. "I lived with Henry for seventeen years. I'm immune to the Voice Of Authority. Technically, since I touched deck first I get to go in first. Those are the rules."

Lassiter wondered how someone with such an arousing physique could sometimes seem as if he had the brains and self-preservation skills of a lemming.

"This isn't third grade," he said. "There could be booby traps in there. Just follow my lead."

"Why?" Shawn asked. "So I can live forever scarred by the sight of your head exploding like a Diet Coke with a Mentos chaser? No thanks." Shawn covered Lassiter's hand with his own. "I'd rather remember you are you are now, all in one solid man-handling piece."

Lassiter pulled his hand back. He was sure that Shawn had no idea how those little faux-flirtations affected him. _If he suspected_, Lassiter thought, _he'd probably do it twice as much._ And that would be way beyond Lassiter's ability to withstand. If he was going to come out of this trip with any control where Shawn was concerned he'd have to keep a tight lid on himself for the next two days.

"One bad memory is better than being killed by a mantrap," he said grimly.

"Okay," Shawn said. "I get that you're serious about this. How's about if I use my psychic Spidey sense to detect danger?" He raised an eyebrow and put his hand to his head in what he called his 'psychic salute'.

"How is your sideshow act supposed to protect us, exactly?" Lassiter asked, scanning the deck for anything that stood out as potentially dangerous, like a trip wire or a pressure plate.

"By sensing danger." Shawn rolled his eyes. "Jeesh, I wasn't even allowed to read comic books as a kid I know what a Spidey sense is." Shawn scanned the deck of the yacht absently, then stepped in front of the cabin doors, blocking Lassiter. "Let me do my thing, Lassie. If there's a giant boulder in there waiting to be released or blow darts that shoot out of the walls, I'll know it." He could see Lassiter's resolve melting under the barrage. It was inevitable. If this method had worked for years on someone as stubborn as Henry, it was pretty much guaranteed to work on regular people. He went on, "So what's the plan if knockout gas sprays out of something and we wake up chained to a pipe in the bathroom?"

Lassiter crossed his arms and his lips curled up at the edges only slightly. He'd rather Shawn never know when he found him amusing. It just encouraged him.

"I haven't seen the bathroom yet," he said, "but I'm willing to bet that the two of us would never fit in it."

"You'd be surprised at how flexible I am," Shawn said. "I can fit in some pretty small spaces."

Lassiter wondered if everything out of Shawn's mouth lately was a sexual innuendo or if it just seemed that way because he could measure the time since he'd last had sex in years instead of days.

He put a hand on Shawn's shoulder and tried to push him aside. Shawn resisted, holding his ground. "If we are facing some kind of Saw scenario," he said. "Please don't gut me for the key to your exploding headgear."

"Agreed," Lassiter sighed and Shawn stepped aside, allowing him to examine the door to the cabin. It was flush, except for two small holes near the lock. It almost looked like the work of a drill. He tried to peer through it, but could see nothing. He wondered if someone had been there before them, trying to break in. Cautiously, he pulled out the keys they'd confiscated from Vargas.

"Whoa there, Lassie." Shawn's hand touched his thigh, sending a shiver up his spine. Shawn crouched, wrapped an arm around Lassiter's leg, and peered at the drill marks. If Lassiter's mind had been able to think of anything other than the feel of Shawn's hand on his leg, he might have remembered the box of receipts he'd caught Shawn rummaging through in the file room at the station. As part of the process of asset seizure they'd subpoenaed all Vargas's credit card bills and bank statements. One bill showed that Vargas had used his American Express card to buy a drill and a shotgun at a hardware store, only a month after he'd bought the yacht.

"I'm sensing danger," Shawn said. "We're not quite talking Indiana Jones proportions. Something smaller scale. Maybe Allan Quartermain and the Lost City of Gold size danger." He grabbed a piece of bent wire hanging on a hook near the door and Lassiter watched in horror as he worked the wire into one of the drill holes.

"Jesus Christ, Spen—" Lassiter heard a loud click from behind the door and froze, all thoughts of the warm hand on his leg pushed aside by fear.

"Step back," he whispered to Shawn. His thoughts were racing, thinking of all the possible traps that might have been set in motion.

_Vargas loved his boat, _Lassiter reasoned_, so they probably weren't looking at explosives. A blow torch? No, too much risk of fire. A gun then, rigged to shoot the first person through the door. Yes, that would be Vargas' style._ He quickly did a mental calculation of the probable height of the trap.

"Not yet, Lassie," Shawn said, remaining in his crouch before the lock. "I'm almost done. Wait for it…."

Lassiter's mind reeled. Maybe he could yank Shawn out of the way, he thought. Or use his own body to shield him from the blast.

Shawn slowly pulled the wire free and Lassiter gulped in air, only then realizing that he'd been holding his breath. He froze again as Shawn worked the wire into the second hole, above the lock. Another loud click sounded and Shawn slipped the wire out, stood up and smiled.

"Ta da!" Shawn raised his arms in triumph. "Trap disarmed."

"Don't start celebrating just yet." Shawn's complete lack of any self-preservation instinct didn't absolve Lassiter of the responsibility for his safety. Not only would Henry and Vick never forgive him if something happened to Shawn on his watch, but Lassiter knew he could never forgive himself. With Shawn standing well back, he put the key in the lock and then, standing as far to the side as possible, opened the door. Just as he'd suspected, a sawed off shotgun had been rigged to shoot the first person who entered the cabin without disarming the trap. But Shawn's wire work had done the trick. It was probably how Vargas usually disarmed the trap himself.

He pointed a finger accusingly at Shawn. "The next time I tell you to stay back that means you leave the disarming of booby traps to me, got it? You could have killed us both." Lassiter felt the tension slowly drain from his body, and with it, the desire to hug Shawn possessively to him eased.

Shawn giggled. "You said booby." When Lassiter failed to show any sign of amusement, Shawn went on. "Oh Please! Henry used the same kind of setup on the cupboard where he kept my Christmas presents."

"I doubt that." Lassiter had many opinions about what was wrong with Henry Spencer, but being homicidal wasn't on the list.

"Not with a shotgun," Shawn said. "With a supersoaker filled with indelible ink. You wouldn't believe what I had to do to get rid of the evidence the first time I discovered it. Let's just say there are certain abrasive cleansers that I never want to smell again."

Lassiter grabbed his suitcase and cautiously led the way into the cabin, past a small saloon with a bar and short modern style sofa, through a galley with a table and chairs, and then down a set of stairs. He opened the door to the master suite and stopped so suddenly that Shawn banged into him from behind. Shawn heard Lassiter swear under his breath, using a word he didn't think the detective even knew.

"What's wrong?" He asked, peering around Lassiter's torso, trying to see the room. Lassiter stepped inside, making space for Shawn to step onto the plush carpeting. "More traps? Please say it's the impaled body of our treacherous guide."

"He's renovated," Lassiter spoke the words as if he'd just found a stack of decomposing bodies instead of a well-appointed stateroom.

"I like it," Shawn said, looking around. "It's like Gordon Gekko designed a hotel room." For a boat, the room was surprisingly large. The walls and ceiling had been redone in dark walnut panelling, matching the built-in armoire and entertainment centre. Two leather armchairs sat against the wall, flanking the portside window. The bed was large, topped by an intricately carved headboard, and the bedding looked expensive and decadently comfortable.

"It's gorgeous," Lassiter spit out, "but the original specs indicate this room sleeps four, and I only see one bed."

Shawn smiled as the meaning of that fact dawned upon him.

Lassiter, however, looked panicky, chewed his lower lip, and gazed out the window toward the parking lot. "Maybe Henry's still around," he said, knowing that the thought was hopeless. Henry was probably half way to Lake Sonoma by now.

Shawn shook his head. "No chance," he said. "And he's gone fishing, so he's turned off his phone."

"You could go back by bus, or plane," Lassiter muttered to himself, looking desperately around the room, hoping that a second bed would become apparent. He could not share a bed with Spencer. It took all of his self-control to keep his libido in check when the man was fully clothed and standing ten feet away. How was he supposed to manage when they were sharing the same bed? He pictured himself making trips to the bathroom to ease the tension. Maybe he could pretend he had a bladder problem.

"We'll just have to share," Shawn said. He leaped joyously onto the bed and sunk into the downy comforter. He sighed with pleasure then slapped a spot next to him. "Jump up here, Lassie. You've got to try this thing. It's amazing. I bet you could drop a bowling ball next to me and I wouldn't even notice." Shawn spotted the tiny bar fridge beside the bed, leaned over and began to poke around inside it.

"In your dreams, Spencer." Lassiter said. He turned, gripped the doorframe as his head swam for a moment, and then walked out of the room before Shawn talked him into lying down on that bed, 'just to see how it feels.' Maybe, he thought, he could just go without sleep. He'd done it before on cases that went over 24 hours. Of course he wasn't usually piloting a boat while exhausted, but would it really be any more dangerous than carrying a gun?

"Dude!" Shawn shouted to Lassiter's retreating back, "There's champagne!"

Up on the flying bridge, Lassiter piloted the yacht toward the setting sun, through the channel, past the jettys, and out of the harbour. Once they reached clear water he pushed both throttles forward and headed south toward Santa Barbara. The cruiser had amazing pickup and handled like a dream. It must have been ideal for drug smuggling. Lassiter glanced at the GPS system. With any luck they could get as far as Mendocino before they had to stop for the night. He tried not to think about what would happen then.

Shawn emerged from below deck, climbed the ladder to the bridge and settled himself on one of the leather seats behind the helm.

"Champagne, Lassie?" He wiggled the bottle at him. "Or, as we call it in California, sparkling wine."

"I can't drink," Lassiter said, not looking at him. "I'm piloting."

Among the many things Lassiter was certain about, the fact that he mustn't drink during this trip stood out like a lighthouse beacon. Things were difficult enough as it was. Adding booze to the mix would seal his fate. He could picture it already. Shawn would ramp up the teasing and innuendo. Lassiter would fail to set boundaries, hoping he could pretend that Shawn actually meant any of the things he said. He would move into dangerous waters, where the markers separating joke from confession were muddied and indistinct. Then, in a perfect storm of lowered inhibitions and mistaken motives, he would touch Shawn in a way that couldn't be written off as anything other than sexual. There'd be a moment of awkward embarrassment, as his interest was exposed and undeniable, followed by hours of crushing humiliation as Shawn taunted him about it all the way back to Santa Barbara.

"And there's no guarantee it would even stop then," he muttered to himself.

"What?" Shawn asked, stepping closer so he could hear over the sound of the engine.

"Nothing," Lassiter said. "I was just saying that I can't drink."

"Can't you just switch it into drive, point it toward Santa Barbara, and come hang out with me?"

"That sounds safe," Lassiter said, the sarcasm evident in his tone. "Besides," he added, "Operating a boat under the influence of alcohol is a misdemeanour."

Riiight." Shawn looked morosely at the unopened bottle of champagne.

"Since you're here," he said, "Take the helm while I set up my trolling line." Shawn's face fell, but he slipped into the seat and grasped the wheel. Lassiter climbed down to the stern and unpacked the Sak-Hart graphite rod and reel that Henry Spencer had given him a few years ago. With any luck, by the time they stopped for the night he'd have caught enough fish for dinner.

When Lassiter returned and took the helm back he was all business.

"Listen up, Spencer," he said. "Here's the plan. We take this in shifts. One of us pilots while the other sleeps. If we really push it we can be back in Santa Barbara by tomorrow morning."

_I see where this is going, _Shawn thought_, and it all ends with us not sharing a bed._

Suddenly he saw his seduction plan disintegrating before his eyes. Sure, Lassiter's suggestion would get them home a day early, but it left them no quality time together. And if Shawn were going to draw Maninblue42 out from behind Lassiter's frosty exterior, he'd need time.

"Sounds good," he said, forcing enthusiasm he didn't feel into his words. "I can't wait to get this baby up to top speed, maybe pull a few wheelies. You're a sound sleeper, right?"

"No antics, Spencer. Just pilot the boat."

"Come on, Lassie. Don't be Lieutenant Marty Castillo's rough complexion. I brought my Jan Hammer music and my Ray Bans. I can't wait to explore the Pacific, foil some drug-running, maybe pick up some babes. There's a sweet whale-watching place I've been meaning to check out. Chicks flock to those places. I'll wake you if we see dolphins. The use their noses to communicate telepathically, did you know that? Of course you have to be a little drunk to establish the link, but don't worry, I drive very well under the influence, and my judgement remains sound. In fact, I like to think it gets even better. You say this baby's got 500 horses?"

Lassiter was pretty sure Shawn was joking, but he also realized that he would not sleep a wink if he left Shawn in charge of the yacht.

"Forget it." He sighed. "We'll take this trip slow and steady."

"Your call, man." Shawn said, relinquishing the wheel to him. "But you'll be sorry you didn't get to experience my cool trick moves. There's one called 'walking the dog,' where you get the boat's nose right up in the air—" He demonstrated with his hands.

"Enough!" Lassiter gripped the wheel possessively. "You are not piloting this craft, Spencer. Forget about it."

Turning to face the open ocean, Lassiter did not see Shawn's wide smile.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they dropped anchor off Montecito the water was black and the sun was a tiny sliver of molten orange on the horizon. Lassiter secured the boat, scaled, gutted and cleaned the day's catch, and then strode into the cabin, setting the fish into the sink for rinsing. The cabin's lights sent a warm glow over the room and Shawn, reclining on the tiny sofa reading a sports magazine, looked relaxed and domestic.

Shawn leaped up. "Dude, finally! I thought you were never going to park this thing."

"Yachts anchor or berth, Spencer. They don't park." He held up one of the salmon. "Aren't these beauties?" He beamed. "How do you like yours prepared?"

Shawn waved a hand. "Oh, just make it into sushi or something. But go easy on the rice wine vinegar."

"Baked it is, then," Lassiter murmured to himself. As he wrapped the salmon in tin foil and set it in the oven, he reflected upon how the situation in which he now found himself was entirely his own fault. Once, in university, he'd taken a semester-long course in Buddhism. At the time he'd been irritated to have to take anything that wasn't criminology. But now the words of his little bald teacher came floating back to him: Desire is the cause of all suffering. As he cranked up the temperature on the oven and tossed in a few potatoes he'd brought along, it occurred to him that his professor had been correct. Desire had put him here; desire to own a boat he could never afford, and desire for a man he could never have. Real life wasn't about getting everything you wanted. Not his life, anyway. In real life you only got what you paid for, and if the first few hours of this boat trip were any indication, his hubris would have to be paid for in enough stress and tension to shave a few years off his life.

Once the salmon and potatoes were baked through Lassiter plated them and brought them to the tiny dining table. He picked up the booklet that outlined the original boat specifications and put it into a drawer. Vargas's renovations hadn't touched the narrow galley; Lassiter guessed that cooking hadn't been a priority for the drug peddler. The oven had been spotless, and he wondered if Vargas had ever even used it.

As they ate Lassiter discussed his plan for getting them back to Santa Barbara and Shawn thought about his plan for getting Lassiter into the bed downstairs.

"That was delicious, Lassie," Shawn admitted, patting his belly happily. "All we need now is dessert." He stood and began poking through the galley cupboards, returning to the table with a package of Auga mini toasts and a tiny metal tin. Lassiter frowned at him as the psychic opened the tin and began to spoon gelatinous black beads onto a cracker.

"You can't eat that caviar," Lassiter objected. "It was bought with drug money."

"Isn't it always?" Shawn asked. "Come on, live a little. Vargas won't get out of jail until years after this stuff expires. Have some." He held a tiny slice of caviar toast toward him.

"No." Lassiter crossed his arms. "I am not eating a drug smuggler's caviar."

"Fine. Suit yourself," Shawn said. "But you know he'd eat your caviar if he had the chance." He popped the toast into his mouth.

"How is it?" Lassiter asked, watching Shawn's face. He'd never tried caviar. He'd come close to having it once at an event hosted by the Mayor, but had been suddenly called to investigate a dead body found at Stearn's Wharf.

"Terrible," Shawn said. He wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out, as if reluctant to pull the caviar taste back into his mouth. "Caviar should be hard, round, and burst in your mouth at exactly the right moment." He grabbed a napkin and tried to wipe the taste away.

"I didn't realize you were a connoisseur," Lassiter said sarcastically.

Shawn darted to the fridge, pulled out a cold beer, popped the tab and guzzled until the salty taste was gone. "Actually," he said, coming up for air. "I've never had it before. But I've seen Overboard six times. Funny, they never mention that it tastes like tiny salty eyeballs."

Lassiter wondered how long he could put off going to bed. He wanted to be up and moving again before dawn, but the longer he held out the more likely it was that Shawn would crash first.

"Speaking of things we've never done," Shawn said, hoping the segue sounded less forced to Lassiter than it did to him. "Let's play a game. It's called 'I never.' You pick a thing you've never done, and if the other guy hasn't done it, he has to take a drink."

"I'm not playing games with you, Spencer." _Especially not any games involving vast amounts of drinking._

"Then what do you want to do?" Shawn asked, "Compare scars? Sing Ladies of Spain?"

"How about if you go to be early while I stay up and plot our course home?" Lassiter offered.

"Nonsense," Shawn countered. "Let's do something fun. How about we hold hands and have a séance where we ask Davey Jones the combination to his locker?"

"No séances." _And no hand-holding_.

"Come on. It'll help pass the time." Shawn sensed Lassiter was going to be more difficult to seduce than he'd expected, and he was running low on scenarios he thought might lead seamlessly into the bedroom. At this rate he'd be wearing a three-quarter sleeved trenchcoat and playing Peter Gabriel songs to him on a boombox before they touched dock.

Lassiter gestured toward the lower level. "Searching this yacht would pass the time too, I don't see you showing any interest in that."

Shawn stood. "Very well, Lassie. I accept your challenge." He turned on his heel and disappeared below deck, leaving Lassiter to ponder the limits of his self-control.

"Shawn," Gus said, pleasantly surprised to hear his friend's voice. "I didn't think I'd hear from you for at least a few days. How's the trip going?"

"So far so bad," Shawn said petulantly as he wandered about the yacht, getting a sense of the layout. "Trying to make Lassie relax is like pulling teeth. Not that I've done that."

"That is a strange saying," Gus admitted, grimacing. "It must have been coined by dentists."

Shawn entered the bedroom. "Now he's got me searching the boat for clues. So I need your help."

"I'm at your disposal," Gus said., glad to be offering advice on something related to the Vargas case instead of the Lassiter issue. "What do you need?"

"I knew I could count on you, Buddy." Shawn's sharp eyes scanned the room. If Vargas had hidden anything illicit, it would be someplace that a quick customs check wouldn't find. If there were hiding places on board, Shawn thought, they wouldn't be part of the yacht's original design. "I figured I'd start with the bedroom since Vargas renovated it," Shawn said. "Can you say king sized bed?" He pitched his voice high and let out a celebratory "What!"

"You mean there's only one bed?" Gus asked, his voice concerned.

"Oh yeah." Shawn opened a bedside drawer to find it stocked with condoms, lube and Viagra. "And if things do take a turn for the x-rated at least I'll be prepared. This Vargas dude was superfreaky." He opened a second drawer and pulled out a set of leather restraints. "We're talking Pulp Fiction here."

"I'm willing to bet that one of you winds up sleeping on the floor," Gus stated. "And if one of you ends up in bondage it'll be because Lassiter handcuffed you to the toilet."

"Gus," Shawn warned, "don't be the only male cast member of Fresh Prince of Bel Air to not have a current acting career."

"If you're referring to Alfonso Ribiero," Gus said sternly, "I'll have you know that he's been working behind the camera since 1996. And he won Dancing With The Stars."

"Not really an acting job," Shawn objected. He looked under the bed, ran his hand along the back of the wardrobe and glared at the carpet. "I don't think there's anything here, Gus. Not unless it's got some kind of hidden lock system."

"Maybe there's a series of things that have to be done in sequence," Gus suggested, still excited by the prospect of finding a hidden cache of evidence. "Try closing the window, opening a drawer and then turning off the light. Or turning on the light, opening the window and then closing a drawer."

"Too many options," Shawn complained. I'm moving on. He's got to have renovated more than just the bedroom."

"It would help if you had an idea of what the boat looked like when he bought it," Gus remarked.

"Dude, you're brilliant!" Shawn padded into the kitchen where Lassiter was studiously pouring over a map, and opened the drawer where he remembered seeing him stash the ownership papers for the boat. Sure enough, there it was. Book in hand, Shawn walked about the cruiser looking for places that wavered from the original design specifications. He opened a door off the hall just outside the bedroom.

"Wow," Shawn said as he surveyed bathroom—or head as Lassiter insisted on calling it. "Lassie wasn't kidding. This bathroom is tiny." He stepped into the cramped space. "Why is it so small? As the book my mom once forced me to read says, Everybody Poops."

"There's not a lot of room on most nautical vessels, Shawn," Gus pointed out. "They have to use space as best they can. A submarine is the same." Gus spoke from the depths of his two months experience assembling the model kit of the U.S.S. Maryland.

Shawn frowned at the handbook and then at the bathroom. "Hold the phone, buddy," he said triumphantly. "Who renovates to make a bathroom smaller?"

"Okay," Gus agreed, "that is weird."

"I bet you a months worth of Skittles that there's some hidden compartment in here." Shawn ran his hands over the light wood panelling, pushing and prodding, hoping something would slide or pop open. Nothing budged.

"Any luck?" Gus queried hopefully. Shawn could hear him typing in the background.

"Hey," Shawn said accusingly, "you're at your other job, aren't you?"

"And why shouldn't I be?" Gus sounded exasperated. "I have to do something, and you're off gallivanting with Lassiter."

"Gallivanting?" Shawn grimaced at his friend's words, and absently toyed with a metal sculpture of a topless mermaid sitting on a shelf next to soap and shaving equipment.

Ignoring Shawn, Gus continued. "I may as well get some real work done. And it's not like I can run a psychic detective agency without a psychic. In fact, I crunched some numbers, and out of the last eight months, you've been absent from work without cause over—"

Gus continued talking, but Shawn barely heard him. He was staring thoughtfully at the mermaid. Gus was right—a boat was a cramped place. Everything on it served a function. Why then did the bathroom feature such a pointless object? Shawn set the mermaid absently on the sink and watched with renewed interest as it suddenly moved of its own accord and smacked against the metal tap with a sharp clink. He picked it up again, using extra force to break the bond between the tap and the mermaid.

"It's a magnet." Shawn said absently. "But what is it for?" He immediately thought of three obscene uses for a mermaid magnet, but he hoped the answer was a bit less obvious.

"And if we add up the value of that lost time—a magnet? Shawn, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about secret compartments, Gus." Slowly, tentatively, Shawn moved the magnet over the bathroom panelling. "Compartments that I hope will be stuffed with drugs. Or a signed confession. Or at the very least bootleg copies of Val Kilmer's music CD, Sessions With Mick."

"Well look harder," Gus suggested. If you find drugs they might be able to use them to get Vargas to give up his boss."

"I know, I know!" Shawn hissed, running the magnetic mermaid over every available surface. "I'm looking as hard as I can." The more nothing happened the more disappointed he felt. Then, low behind the sink he spotted a panel where the finish was slightly worn on one side. Placing the magnet there had immediate results. With a loud click a door swung open, revealing a small cubbyhole. Inside, nestled amongst the plumbing, lay several black leather books.

"Jackpot!" Shawn pumped his fists and did an awkward victory dance in the tiny confines of the bathroom. "This is going to put me in so tight with Lassie. Uh, no pun intended." He pulled a book from the cubby hole and opened it, hoping to see a list of Vargas's drug connections. Instead, he saw very naked people.

"Uh oh," Shawn flipped anxiously through the book.

"What did you find?" Gus asked. "Is it drugs? Or a record of his distribution network? Or a ledger outlining bribe payouts to highly placed officials?"

"Well, it's not a ledger," Shawn said, "unless these naked people are some kind of code."

"Maybe it's blackmail material," Gus suggested.

"I think it's like, a journal," Shawn said. There was Vargas in bed with three modelesque blondes, Vargas strapped to a big wooden X, being whipped by a dominatrix, Vargas with a woman and two dudes, all naked except for what looked like leather ski masks. Shawn grabbed the second book and flipped it open, only to discover more of the same. He was 80% sure that one photo featured the drug dealer in an orgy with half the cast of Gus's favourite hospital drama. Shawn must have been more engrossed than he realized because suddenly Lassiter's voice rang out beside him, and he jumped with surprise, feeling as he had when Henry had caught him reading a Playboy when he was thirteen.

"Found something?" Lassiter asked.

"Uh, sorry Gus, I gotta go." Shawn ended his call, closed the book and cleared his throat. "Secret cupboard." He pointed to the mermaid statue "The spirit of The Little Mermaid called to me, psychically."

"Sure it did." Lassiter crouched down beside him and peered at the open compartment. "Are those record books?" His eyes shone with hope.

"Not the kind of records you're hoping for." Shawn passed an album across to Lassiter, who flipped it open. A sharp intake of breath was followed by the scrape of turning pages, and then an abrupt slam as Lassiter forcefully shut the book.

"That Vargas is one sick twist," Lassiter sneered. "Nobody normal would be into this kind of sick, demented—"

"Really?" Shawn cut in. "I'd be totally up for what's on page 17."

Lassiter stacked the books and put them under his arm. We'll have to get someone to go through these, but I don't see us building a case against Vargas' boss on the strength of some dirty pictures." He slapped a hand on Shawn's shoulder. "Still, Good job, Spencer."

Shawn beamed.

Lassiter lay down on the tiny sofa—or as close as it was possible for a man as tall as he was to approximate lying down on a sofa built to seat two. He tried to convince himself that it would hold him comfortably, if only he could find the right angle. If he could get his torso arranged comfortable, perhaps it wouldn't matter that his legs were draped awkwardly over the arm rest. The second time his spine made contact with a piece of metal frame he realized that the task was hopeless. They were going to have to share the bed.

Lassiter changed into his blue flannel pajamas and stood staring at the bed, as if willing a second sleeping space to appear. The stateroom seemed ominous, and despite its fairly spacious size, the ceiling felt as if it were looming in on him.

"Bathroom's all yours, Lassie," Shawn said as he entered, clad only in a small pair of tartan briefs that clung to every plane of his hips.

"What the hell are you wearing, Spencer?" Lassiter had expected that Shawn's sleepwear would be something less revealing, perhaps with cartoon firetrucks or Batman on it.

"What, these?" Shawn glanced down at the tiny shorts. "They're my lucky briefs."

"Tartan?"

"It's a family tartan."

"Spencer's not a Scottish name."

"Okay, so it's not _my_ family."

"Where are your pyjamas?" Lassiter asked, hoping his voice didn't sound as squeaky and panicked to Shawn as it did to him.

"Dude, PJs are for little kids," Shawn set his toothbrush down on the nightstand. "I'm only wearing briefs out of respect for you. I usually sleep _a la mode_."

"That means served with ice cream." Lassiter's mind reeled, torn between the intoxicating image of the fabric barely covering Shawn's body and the equally appealing idea that Shawn might not be joking about respecting him.

"Really? Then what am I thinking of?"

"Damned if I know." Lassiter slipped hesitantly into the bed, then shut off the bedside lamp.

Shawn climbed beneath the covers and peered across at him. "Would it make you feel more comfortable if we discussed sports for a few minutes before we got down to the cuddling?"

"Just go to sleep, Spencer." Lassiter settled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, trying to think about anything other than the close proximity of Spencer's nearly naked body and the images he'd seen when he had sneaked a glance at page 17 in Vargas's porn scrapbook. _Surely Shawn had been joking,_ Lassiter reasoned with himself. _He had to have been, right?_

His nerves felt raw and the tension in his muscles suggested he was ready for many things, but sleep was not among them.

"Fine," Shawn said. "But if I have a nightmare you'll need to hold me and sing True Colors until I get back to sleep."

In the dark, Lassiter could feel Shawn adjusting to get comfortable. He put all his effort into lying very still and keeping his breathing slow and steady, lest Shawn sense that he was not, in fact, falling easily into sleep.

Two hours later, he still lay there, not sleeping. His arm rested as close to the edge of the bed as he dared, and he tried to forget where he was, and with whom, long enough to relax. Next to him, Shawn lay sprawled on his stomach, unnervingly close.

How many times had he wondered what this might be like, even if only briefly, indulgently, during some of his longer showers. Now, with Shawn's almost naked body lying only a foot away, Lassiter felt sick. The temptation to hold Shawn close to him was almost palpable, but he knew he mustn't succumb. Despite Shawn's flirtatious banter, he would probably have a panic attack if Lassiter actually tried to take him up on it. Returning to Santa Barbara in humiliation after having made an awkward pass at Spencer was the last thing he needed. The psychic would probably have laughed about it to half the station before they even docked. He'd never live it down.

Just as Lassiter felt that the possibility of social disaster was finally giving him a handle on his libido Shawn mumbled something in his sleep, rolled toward him, and flung an arm across his chest. Lassiter lay paralysed for a moment, afraid to make a sound lest Shawn awake. Every nerve in his body seemed to shift into alertness, and he held his breath. The move had obviously been unintentional. Shawn's slow heavy breathing indicated he was still asleep. As he burrowed his head into the crook of Lassiter's arm, the detective found himself torn between his desire to respond to the soft warmth of Shawn's skin against him and his responsibility as the only conscious person in the room. He moved his arm almost imperceptibly, cradling Shawn's sleeping form against him. When this drew no response he leaned his head forward just enough to smell Shawn's hair. It was scented with a mix of the salt air and some sort of citrus product.

_Bad idea!_ His brain shouted at him. _You will not—I repeat, will not—put the moves on a sleeping man. _Lassiter began to run through section 2.3.4 of the California Penal Code. The familiarity of the statues was reassuring—relaxing almost. He drifted off into a dream about chasing Vargas through Old Sonora, the western town where he'd spent his weekends as a child.


	4. Chapter 4

Shawn awoke to the gentle bobbing of the ocean and the heavy thrumming of the engine. He was alone. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, saw that it was after eleven in the morning, and called Gus.

"Burton Guster," his friend's voice was clear and professional. He'd gone into his other job again.

"So our first night was a total bust," Shawn said, not bothering with any pleasantries. "I'd have gotten more action at a Cub Scout Jamboree."

"I doubt that," Gus said seriously. Unlike Shawn, he had been to the Jamboree.

"Why didn't Lassie take advantage of the situation?" Shawn asked. "I was practically naked, Gus. And I'm ninety percent sure that it made an impression."

"Ninety percent?" Gus didn't sound convinced.

"Dude, don't be the member of ZZ Top without the beard," Shawn complained. "When we started off I thought there was a sixty percent chance of attraction, but by the evening I thought that had pushed up into the high nineties. I'm almost positive he wants me, so what's the problem?"

Gus sighed at Shawn's sexual barometer imagery. This kind of talk was what happened when he left Shawn alone watching the weather network.

"Try to think of it from his point of view," Gus suggested. "He works with you. He knows you're lying to him about being psychic, so he doesn't trust you."

"Since when is trust a prerequisite to sex?" Shawn asked. "I've slept with people I wouldn't even leave alone in my apartment."

"I'm guessing Lassiter's a little more discerning," Gus said. "If he can't trust you, it won't matter how enticing you are. He's not going to take the bait."

Shawn considered his friend's words. If what Gus said was right, then the only way into Lassie's pants was through radical honesty, and he was pretty sure that choice led directly to jail without passing go or collecting two hundred dollars. It was no contest; he much preferred the community chest card where he won second prize in a beauty contest. If he was even going to think about spilling the beans about his 'psychic gift' to Lassiter, he needed to know he'd tried every other option.

"Oh yeah? We'll just see about that," Shawn said, and rang off. Five minutes later he emerged from the shower stall and towelled off before applying a think layer of cocoa-butter sunscreen. It was time to put a plan he'd decided to call Project Beefcake into action.

Lassiter was standing at the helm, watching the radar screen and scanning the horizon for obstructions as the streamlined yacht cut the water. He'd awoken at 8:00 a.m. entwined with Shawn's sleep-heavy limbs, and suffering from a serious case of morning glory. As carefully as he could, he had slipped out from beneath the sleeping man and crept outside, removing himself from the temptation of Shawn's near-naked body. Although his eyes stung and his muscles were sore from lack of sleep, at least he was getting a jump on the next leg of their journey. Initially clad in a heavy sweater, now, as the sun approached its zenith and the heat beat down, he had stripped off to a T-shirt.

Lassiter heard the sound of the cabin door, followed by the soft slapping of Shawn's bare feet on the deck and the squeak of a chair behind him.

"Are you hungry?" he shouted over the engine. "I could fix us some—" He glanced behind him and the remainder of his sentence was chocked off as his throat went dry. Shawn was reclining languorously on a deck chair, shining with oil, wearing sunglasses and the merest hint of a bathing suit. The sight of Shawn's hips against the flimsy nylon spandex gave him ideas that he reminded himself were completely inappropriate to be having toward someone who a co-worker—well, was almost a co-worker.

"Where in the name of Smith and Wesson are your clothes?" he demanded, slowing the craft to a crawl.

"They're down in our bedroom," Shawn said. "Enabling me to get a delightfully rich tan."

"Don't call it _our_ bedroom," Lassiter said, unable to look away from Shawn's tan, glistening skin.

"Fine. Do you prefer 'the bedroom we share'?" Shawn asked.

Lassiter cleared his throat and tried to think about baseball or cars, or anything other than gripping Shawn's hips in his hands. "Just call it the stateroom," he said, thickly.

"Whatever makes you more comfortable, Lassie."

Lassiter sighed and turned back to the controls, reflecting that he hadn't felt truly comfortable since he'd pulled out of the SBPD parking lot yesterday. As the craft cut through the waves headed for Santa Barbara, he stole glances at Shawn out of the corner of his eye, and tried to remember all the reasons his sexual interest in the psychic was doomed to failure.

"Besides," Shawn said, "you're not exactly wearing a parka. I can see part of your biceps under that t-shirt. For you, that's practically nudism."

"It's hot," Lassiter said, referring to the heavy sun now beaming down upon them.

"I think so," Shawn said, referring to anything but the sun.

"You know that your risk of skin cancer increases every time you get a tan, don't you?" he asked. He hoped that Shawn would put on a pair of pants or a shirt—anything to help him get a handle on the fantasies running through his mind at the moment.

"I'm sorry," Shawn said. "I didn't realize you shared a telepathic link with Gus."

"It's just common sense." Lassiter had tried to get a tan once, in his teens, and had ended up spending a week indoors covered in Noxzema,and smelling like a mentholated eucalyptus tree.

"You're right," Shawn said. "The sun is not our friend, and cancer is like the long distance charges it runs up on our phone after we let it stay over." He leaped from the chair and held out a brightly coloured tube to Lassiter. "Sunscreen?" He offered. "We don't want you getting a burn, do we?"

"Thanks." Lassiter took the sunscreen, squeezed a dollop into his palm and spread it over his face, neck and arms.

"If you need any help getting the hard-to-reach parts, let me know," Shawn offered, despite the fact that Lassiter was wearing long pants and a t-shirt. "I worked as a masseuse at a spa in Ensenada once. I give great…coverage."

Just after 2:00 p.m. the radar indicated an object on the horizon. Soon they were close enough to see that it was a luxury cabin cruiser, slightly smaller than their own, bobbing helplessly in the waves. The occupants of the craft jumped and waved their arms in an effort to signal them.

"Looks like we'll have to make a stop," Lassiter observed as he turned toward the stranded vessel. He manoeuvred their craft alongside the other yacht and cut the engine.

"Man, are we glad to see you!" The sandy-haired young man who addressed them looked like he'd had a long night. Despite his expensive clothing, his eyes were bloodshot, his hair was greasy and there were purple circles under his eyes. Shawn caught the smell of marijuana wafting strongly toward them, and he bet Lassiter noticed it too.

The sandy haired man introduced himself as Bobby, and Shawn recognized his last name because the Santa Barbara area had several buildings named after his father. "We've been staying at my family's beach house," Bobby motioned to the other people on the boat, two blonde women, one tall and one short, and a dark-haired man. The latter was stretched out on a deck chair, and seemed to be trying to sleep. Shawn guessed that not one of them was over twenty. "I took some friends out for a spin, but the damn thing ran out of gas," he explained. "We've been trapped here all night."

"We've been stuck for hours with nothing to do," wailed the shorter woman. Judging by the empty beer cans and the smell of drugs, Shawn guessed they'd found a way to pass the time.

"Have you radioed for the Coast Guard?" Lassiter asked, although he was pretty sure that he already knew the answer.

"No, it uh, didn't even occur to us." Bobby rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "We kept hoping that a boat would come by with some extra gas." He laughed. "And now you have."

Lassiter, who had mentally been calculating all the violations he was witnessing, would have loved to cuff the smug whelp. But making an arrest on his way back to Santa Barbara wasn't part of his plan. Better to let the Coast Guard handle it.

"I'll make the call for you," he offered. "As a police officer," he emphasized the words, "I'm obliged to report any stranded vessels."

_And of course any underage drinking, operating of motorcraft while intoxicated, and drug use._

"You don't have to call the Coast Guard." The tall blonde pouted at Shawn and allowed the silk wrap she was wearing to fall open, revealing her bikini-clad body. "You could just give us enough gas to get back to shore."

"We don't have any extra gas," Lassiter lied. "But the Coast Guard will." He picked up the radio, turned his back on the other vessel, and made the call.

"Are you a cop too?" Bobby asked Shawn, glancing suspiciously at his bathing trunks.

"No." Shawn smiled. "I'm Shawn Spencer, psychic." No matter how many times he told that particular lie it never stopped being fun. He spotted a horizontal bruise on Bobby's ankle, probably from the leash of a surfboard, and put his fingertips to his temple. "I see you surfing, and I sense that you recently had a rough spill." He held up a hand. "I see you fighting for your life, thrown about savagely by the waves." He tossed his head back and forth, as if experiencing it himself. That should go over well, he figured. Everyone liked being able to claim they had narrowly escaped death, and Bobby would probably love being the centre of attention.

"Wow, man," Bobby drawled. "You're so right." He nodded enthusiastically. "I nearly died." He turned to his shipmates, and basked in their looks of concern.

"How about me?" The short blonde asked. She leaned back, thrusting her breasts forward. "Can you read me, too?" Shawn ran his eyes over her tanned limbs. She wore a very expensive-looking platinum bracelet on her left wrist, but her stylish sunglasses and swimsuit were merely well-done knock-offs. She wasn't in the same class as her friends, but based on the bracelet she had a benefactor somewhere among their set.

"You're a woman of mystery," Shawn said. "But I sense that you have a special friend in high places. Someone who sees your true value."

She smiled. "You're very good."

Lassiter, done with his call, rejoined them.

"You're in luck," he said. "The Coast Guard has a boat nearby. It's on its way."

"Thanks," Bobby said, his face betraying no sign of gratitude. He picked up a plastic bag, and began to gather the empty beer cans.

"Hey psychic," The taller blonde leaned toward them. "We're heading back to Montecito. Bobby's folks have a place there. Why don't you join us?" She licked her lips and ran her gaze over his exposed torso. "We could go swimming. Or something." By the way she rolled that last word around in her mouth Lassiter had no illusions about what she was really offering.

"That's a great idea," Bobby said. "You should definitely come."

The dark-haired boy lifted his sunglasses and mumbled something that sounded like agreement before returning to his semi-comatose state.

"You can if you want," Lassiter said. "I can take the cruiser back on my own." Of course Shawn would go with them, he thought sourly. These rich kids were easily impressed and manipulated. Shawn would party with them for a few days and then roll into the station next week as if nothing had happened. After trying so hard to get rid of him, Lassiter was surprised by how disappointed he felt at the thought of his leaving now.

Shawn shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks," he said. "I'm working on an important case with Detective Lassiter," he jerked a thumb toward Lassiter. "We catch bad guys."

"I could be bad," the blonde suggested.

"I don't doubt it for a minute," Shawn said. But his tone made it clear that his decision had been made.

Within fifteen minutes the Coast Guard boat was visible on the horizon, and getting larger by the moment. Anxious to get going, Lassiter started the engine. As they pulled away the teenagers waved and shouted their goodbyes to Shawn.

"Take care, Guys!" Shawn called back to them. Then, in a voice audible only to Lassiter, he added. "Have fun with the cavity search."

"I'm surprised you didn't take them up on their offer," Lassiter said, still trying to understand why Shawn had remained with him on the yacht.

Shawn shook his head. "They're not my type. With their school ties and their quidditch."

"Those women didn't exactly look like part of the old boys network."

"No, but I'd still pick you and your bad suits and your weird boat shoes over their Jimmy Choo shoes and their Cartier tennis bracelets any day."

A ghost of a smile crossed Lassiter's lips.

That evening, lying on the deck chair in jeans and a t-shirt, pretending to read a magazine, Shawn reflected that he only had one more night before they'd be back in Santa Barbara. If he was honest with himself, the scenarios he sometimes dreamed up at night—Lassiter, undercover at a gay bathhouse, or the two of them stuck in a freezer and having to share body heat, or trapped by a serial killer who forced them to have sex under threat of death—those things were never going to happen. This trip was probably the best chance with Lassiter he'd ever have and it was slipping through his fingers one minute at a time. It was time to take action.

Far off the starboard side, a series of tiny posts, the remains of some wrecked wharf, hosted a flock of brown pelicans, their loud squabbles for purchase on the rotting piers carrying across the water.

Shawn sighed loudly, slapped the magazine down and turned to face Lassiter. "Look, I've been subtle this whole trip, and it's worked as well as Charlie Sheen's rehab. I give up!"

"Subtle about what?" Lassiter asked, not meeting his gaze.

Shawn shook his head, incredulous at Lassiter's ability to ignore what was right in front of him.

"Fine," he said. "I'll just put it out there." He pointed into the cabin of the boat. "You, me. That bunk. Amazing head. How about it?"

Lassiter's jaw dropped and he slowed the engine.

"Are you making a gay pass at me?" he asked. Part of him hoped the answer was a resounding 'yes,' and part of him suspected this was all some kind of plot on Spencer's part to expose and humiliate him. He assured himself that since Spence was emphatically not psychic, there was no way he could know of his…proclivities. He hoped this was as true as he wanted it to be.

Shawn laughed. "Wow, you really do just suck the romance out of everything, don't you?"

"Romance? What romance?" For the first time, Lassiter felt taken aback. He had always assumed that Spencer's flirtations could be filed under one of three categories: jokes without any actual sexual intent, intentional manipulation, or accidental innuendo. It had never occurred to him that Spencer's behaviour might have anything to do with romance.

"What romance?" Shawn spread his arms. "You, me, on a boat, miles away from prying eyes." He gestured vehemently to the water and sky. "The cool spray off the whitecaps and the smell of the salt air. The sunsets and the…" he motioned to the pelicans, "the birds…and… stuff."

Lassiter leaned forward and put a hand on the stern to steady himself. Could all of the behaviour he'd brushed off as jocular gay-baiting have actually been sincere? He hardly dared to think it might be true. It couldn't be true. That would mean that Shawn actually…wanted him. Sexually.

"You thought I would find this trip romantic?" He felt laughter bubbling up inside him like a rising tide. This trip had been frustrating, torturous, sometimes almost painful in the way Spencer's proximity seemed to taunt him, but he hadn't for a moment thought of it as romantic.

"Come on," Shawn said, losing patience, "I know all about your online profile. When will you learn that you can't hide things from a psychic?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Lassiter's voice took on a hard undertone. Shawn compared it to the difference between a chocolate with a cherry centre and one with a chewy caramel. It was subtle, but distinct. Inside, Lassiter was panicking, praying that he'd somehow hit his head and this was all a delirious dream.

"Maninblue42." If Shawn had ever doubted that Lassiter was the author of that profile, watching all the blood drain from his face when he heard the user name confirmed it beyond question.

"I don't have an online profile," Lassiter lied. If Shawn knew about the profile, he thought frantically, then he knew everything. He was stripped bare, his true self exposed, raw and vulnerable. And if he's learned anything about Spencer, it was that the man could not keep his mouth shut—not the sort of person you wanted knowing a secret that could damn you and destroy your life. He stared at Shawn and tried to remain expressionless as the panic welled up within him.

"Fine, be that way." Shawn folded his arms and looked out across the water to the distant shoreline, wondering what people who weren't being sexually rejected on a boat were doing that evening. "But," he added, "it's pretty insulting to be turned down by a guy who meets strangers online for sex."

"I don't," Lassiter said quickly. Maybe too quickly.

Shawn waved a hand dismissively. "Sure. Whatever."

Lassiter shut the engine down, swivelled his chair toward Shawn and cradled his head in his hands, trying to clear his mind. Having Spencer know about his profile was a nightmare. But even worse was the thought that he might actually have some kind of a chance with him and fail to grab it. Finally he raised his eyes.

"Look, Spencer," he said, "even if I was interested in men that way—and I'm not saying I am—why would I be interested in _you_?"

Shawn looked shocked, but quickly recovered. "Why _wouldn't_ you be?" He glanced briefly down at his abdomen. "Sure, I've gained a little weight over the past year and a half, but I am _damn_ fine." He ran his fingertips through his hair. "You may remember that I briefly worked as a model." He shifted so he was sitting closer to Lassiter. "Plus, I'm an amazing detective. You know my solve rate. You can't tell me you don't find that hot."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows and gave a brief nod. Certainly, Spencer's success rate was exceptional. And if he were honest, that kind of thing was hot; almost as hot as detective Barry's ability to hit the bullseye with her Glock 19 had been. But while he'd been hesitant to start anything with Lucinda because of their work situation, it was even more complicated with Spencer.

"You work as a psychic," Lassiter pointed out. "You've lied to me on every case we've worked on for the past four years. Why would I be attracted to someone who lies to me all the time?"

_Maybe Spencer knows the answer, _Lassiter thought, _because I sure as hell can't figure it out._

Shawn noticed how Lassiter had skipped right past his physical features to fixate on the whole lying-to-me thing. He looked at Lassiter and wet his lips.

"So it's like truth or dare," he said finally. "I tell you the truth, and you let me—"

"You wouldn't dare," Lassiter interjected. "Tell me the truth, I mean."

Shawn shrugged a shoulder. "I might. That all depends."

"On what?" Lassiter looked warily at Shawn.

Shawn grinned as if he hadn't a care in the world. "On your view of immunity."

Lassiter smiled back, his mouth betraying a mixture of curiosity and elation. "That depends on what you're confessing to," he said.

"Well then we're deadlocked, aren't we? How about a trade? A truth for a dare."


	5. Chapter 5

Lassiter turned his head away, trying to escape from Shawn's insistent gaze. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing at here, Spencer, but whatever it is—"

"No game, Lassie. Totally serious. A truth for a dare. I'll tell you my secret and you do my dare." The pelicans honked, sounding like a chortling group of onlookers.

Lassiter put his hands on his hips and leaned against the cabin. "How do I know this isn't all some kind of a joke?" he asked, his voice trembling so slightly that he was sure Shawn couldn't have noticed.

Shawn sighed with exasperation. "I'll go first even and if what I say doesn't sound like the truth then no dare. I promise."

"I mean," Lassiter said. "How do I know you're not joking about wanting to—" he took a moment as he sought a way to say what he meant, but Shawn caught on before he found the words.

"Oh! That." Shawn smiled. "I think we can find a way to prove my sincerity." Shawn stepped forward, and Lassiter crowded further back against the cabin wall.

Shawn touched a finger to Lassiter's lips. "Relax, Lassie. I'm not going to hurt you." He rested his palms on Lassiter's hips and stood so close that Lassiter could feel the heat from his body. Shawn leaned in until his face was only inches away from Lassiter's. "Have you done this before?" he asked, almost whispering.

Lassiter tried to turned his face away but succeeded in only moving his eyes. "You're supposed to be psychic, you tell me." Then, as Shawn loomed in, he added. "I swear, Spencer, if you come any closer, I'll bite you."

"I'll risk it." Shawn said, and then his mouth was on Lassiter's and he was kissing him, tentatively at first, Gus's words about his health insurance ringing in his ears, then as he felt a response, more insistently. When he felt Lassiter's arms embrace him back he parted his lips and all hesitancy dropped away. The kiss lasted only a minute, but it was long enough to answer all the fearful questions that had been looming in the back of Lassiter's mind. Like a bullet in flight this kiss had a trajectory, and Lassiter could see that its flight ended directly in the stateroom downstairs, on that enormous bed Vargas had installed. But first he needed a different kind of satisfaction. If he was going to risk giving Shawn that kind of a hold over him he needed some insurance.

Shawn pulled back and smiled, equal parts victory and anxiety.

"A truth for a dare?" Lassiter asked.

Shawn took a deep breath and used the air to push the words out. "Ever watch Criminal Minds?" he asked, his thought going immediately to a television parallel. "The hot blonde guy with the schizophrenic mother?"

Lassiter frowned. "You mean the one who doesn't carry his gun properly?"

"Yeah, that one. I do what he does." He felt his stomach clench and he wondered if he was now ruining the best job that he and Gus ever had over a crush, albeit a long-standing one.

Lassiter's suspicion was written all over his face. "He speed reads hundreds of books a year and memorizes their contents."

"Okay, fine. I do _some_ of what he does, except I also have a life." Shawn paused, thoughtfully. "Actually, what I do is a lot like the Mentalist. Have you seen that?"

"No," Lassiter said. "I saw a teaser for it once. It looked…annoying."

"Oh, it is," Shawn admitted. "This guy pretended to be psychic, but he's really just super-observant. It's horrible. If it weren't for the hotness that is Robin Tunney and Tim Kang I wouldn't even bother watching it."

Lassiter's eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what that meant. Finally, he spoke. "So when we're at a crime scene, you just notice more than I do?" He crossed his arms and stared at Shawn with a look he usually reserved for murder suspects.

"Yep." Shawn nodded, and bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, trying to release some of his nervous energy. "Of course you also have to know what the stuff you see means."

"So you're like Rainman," Lassiter said slowly, "but with crime instead of blackjack."

Shawn shook his head. "I'm more like Dexter, but with crime-solving instead of serial killing. And with a live father criticizing me instead of a dead one. In fact, if Henry ever died and his ghost followed me around telling me I'm not good enough and complaining when I borrowing his tools, I might not even notice he _was_ dead."

Lassiter thought for a moment. What Shawn said explained a lot, except why he chose to use such a gift to run a psychic detective agency. In Lassiter's book people with a gift had a responsibility that included not cutting corners. If Shawn was that good he should have gone to the academy and applied himself, maybe even gotten a criminology degree. He could be working for the FBI instead of pretending to divine the location of lost dogs and spot cheating boyfriends.

"Why couldn't you just be upfront about the whole thing?" he asked. "Why the whole psychic act?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "We can't all be Rob Morrow solving crimes with that kid from the Addams Family. I need to make a living, and psychic detective just kind of fell into my lap. Now speaking of laps, let's move ours inside."

Shawn grabbed his waistband and tugged. Lassiter followed him into the cabin and down the stairs, stopping just outside the door to the stateroom. As much as he would loved to follow Shawn into that bedroom, there was one more thing he needed.

"Who knows?" he asked, holding back.

"Apart from you?" Shawn counted off on his fingers. "Gus, Henry, Mom, and my penpal in Guam."

Lassiter studied Shawn carefully in the glow of the hall's pocket lights, looking for signs of deceit. "For someone who seems to love attention, you don't let many people know about the most interesting thing you can do," he said.

"It's surprising how discreet I can be when the career and freedom of me and my best friend are both on the line," Shawn said. "I watched six seasons of Oz, and the only uplifting part was when guys got sent to the hole. I don't need to try living it. So if the cross-examination is done, how about we get to the dare portion of the evening?"

Lassiter resisted, his head offering a dozen rational reasons why crossing this line with Shawn was a very bad idea. But none of them seemed as convincing as the need that was coursing through his veins now. Only his fear was holding him back.

"Come on," Shawn said. "I think I've proven that I can keep a secret."

"Fine." Lassiter said, sounding far grouchier than anyone should under the circumstances. "But if even a hint of this ever surfaces, I am charging you with fraud and prosecuting you and Guster to the fullest extent of the law."

"Why charge Gus?" Shawn protested. "He thought the whole Psych thing was a bad idea from the start. I practically had to force him into it. In fact, I may have committed a felony just getting his name on the lease for our office."

"Guster doesn't deserve prosecution," Lassiter agreed. "But you're impulsive, and that doesn't make for a high trust level. Guster's my insurance."

"You won't need insurance," Shawn assured him. "I've got you covered." He led Lassiter into the bedroom and this time the detective didn't hesitate. His kiss was open and unrestrained.

He pulled the shirt from Shawn's body and trailed his mouth along the muscles of his neck and shoulder, clasping him against him. Shawn's hands wriggled between them and worked franticly at Lassiter's belt. Lassiter relaxed and let Shawn have his way, and within moments they were both naked, their erections curving shamelessly toward one another. Lassiter has expected to be nervous, but now that his body and intentions were so exposed all he felt was a rush of exhilaration and an intense need that pushed him forward, past all his anxieties. Shawn pushed him gently to the bed, straddled him, and clamped his mouth onto Lassiter's right nipple. He was rewarded by a deep groan from Lassiter's lips as he thrust his hips forward, smearing wetness across Shawn's stomach. After several ball-tightening minutes of exquisite torture Shawn moved to the left one and began again.

"Damn!" Lassiter gritted his teeth and watched Shawn from beneath heavy lids. "You are driving me crazy with that sweet mouth of yours."

Shawn mumbled something that sounded like "you ain't seen nothing yet," and moved his way down across Lassiter's abdomen. He wrapped a fist around Lassiter's cock and took the hard shaft into his throat. Lassiter arched off the bed, gripping the bedspread with one hand and a fistful of Shawn's hair with the other.

Lost in the intensity, he desperately tried to hold back the feeling building inside him. Shawn mouth was a perfect combination of wet, tight and rough, driving him to the edge of his self-control.

"Shawn," Lassiter gasped, but the only response he received to the warning was an "uh huh" mumbled from deep in Shawn's throat, sending his nerve endings vibrating. Unable to hold off any longer, Lassiter surrendered and lost himself in the feeling of Shawn's tongue, lips, throat, and hand, and in the powerful spasms that wracked his body, leaving him feeling boneless and spent.

For several moments he lay motionless, watching as Shawn sat up, gasping breathlessly, his face flushed with triumph. He had never looked more beautiful.

"So Lassie," Shawn asked teasingly, his eyes shining, "does this mean you're going to start being nicer to me when we're on a case?"

Lassiter's lips curved in a wry smile and he ran his thumb tenderly along Shawn's jaw. "It's a blowjob, not a lobotomy."

Given Lassiter's earlier trepidation, Shawn was fully prepared for the evening to end there, but Lassiter surprised him by shifting on the bed and pushing him firmly onto his back. Then, before Shawn could even joke about it, Lassiter's mouth descended upon him and he was awash in sensations that left him speechless. Shawn supposed it could be true that Lassiter hadn't done this before, but if the working of his mouth were anything to go on, all evidence pointed to his having thought about it pretty damn thoroughly, possibly on numerous occasions.

"Jesus Lassie," Shawn muttered, struggling to speak coherently, "that's one hell of an oral fixation you've got there!" He grasped the headboard, and his fingers groped along the ridge, scrambling for purchase. They found the lip of one of the carvings and gripped it hard. He felt something give beneath his fingertips but he didn't care. As far as he was concerned, the whole bed could fall apart as long as Lassiter's mouth kept doing what it was doing at that moment. Shawn flung his head back and he heard the headboard smack hard against the wall and felt his grip on it give a little under one hand. Then, in the midst of what was one of the strongest orgasms Shawn had ever had, the ceiling fell in. At least, things were falling on them, and since the ceiling was immediately above them, it was Shawn's primary suspect.

Lassiter sat up panting slightly, and looked around, confused at first and then an icy blue fire lit his eyes as he realized what had happened. They were covered in several dozen small plastic bags of powder. Half were filled with what Shawn assumed was cocaine, since it looked exactly like it did on all the cop shows he watched. The other half held a light beige substance. Shawn picked up one of the mystery bags.

"What the hell is this stuff?"

Lassiter examined one of the little bags. "This…is heroin." He stood on the bed and looked into the ceiling, where he saw additional bags of drugs stored. "This is enough drugs to leverage Vargas into giving us whatever we want."

They both looked at the drugs, the bed, and their naked bodies for a moment, wondering how to explain the circumstances of their find to the folks at the station.

Lassiter's voice took on a serious tone. "So, we're both agreed that I found this stuff during a routine search of the boat?"

Shawn rested his arms behind his head and smiled slyly. "If we also agree that I had a vision that showed you where to look. I have a reputation to uphold, you know."

Lassiter's jaw clenched only a moment before he nodded curtly. "Deal."

"So Lassie," Shawn asked, running a hand along Lassiter's naked thigh. "Is this the start of a beautiful friendship, or am I like Charro, and only guest-starring on this episode of the Love Boat?"

Lassiter looked at Shawn with a measured stare, then smiled as the light of an idea crossed his features. "Tell me Shawn," He asked, "do you like to fish?"

In the break room at the SBPD station, Henry glared sullenly over the top of his coffee and watched Chief Karen Vick heating up a mug of soup in the microwave. Juliet, just arriving with her lunch, noted the look on Henry's face.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said cheerfully. Henry looked at her with curiosity in his eyes and she added, "You look like you've got a lot on your mind."

"It's Shawn," Henry said finally. "I just don't get that kid. For years, I couldn't drag him onto a fishing boat. Believe me, I've tried. Now suddenly he's going fishing with Carlton every weekend? Something's not right."

"I'm just glad to see them getting along," Chief Vick said. "It's a nice change." She smiled and moved her cup of soup carefully to the counter. The trip to Eureka had netted enough evidence for them to flip Vargas. The man was eager to spill his guts and his lawyer was pushing to cut a deal in exchange for cushier prison time. Not only had the asset seizure gone better than expected, but Lassiter had picked up Vargas' yacht for a song, thanks in part to a rumour that the boat was filled with deadly traps. While a thorough search of the vessel had proven this to be untrue, many people felt that bidding on the vehicle might still be dangerous. She herself has witnessed Shawn having a vision at the auction house that the boat was cursed by the ghost of Blackbeard and Captain Highliner. Although she noted that his vision didn't seem to deter him now that the boat was legally the property of Carlton Lassiter.

"They seem to have really bonded during that Eureka trip," Juliet admitted. "Maybe it was breaking the Vargas case together," she mused.

"Bull crap," Henry said, setting his mug down roughly on the counter. "Those two have solved dozens of case together. It's never changed Shawn's interests before."

Nor, Chief Vick mused, had breaking cases together changed Carlton's attitude toward Shawn before. She mulled Henry's words over in her mind. If he was right, and Shawn did indeed hate fishing, then she doubted that two days on a boat with Carlton had changed that. Suddenly, like a game of Tetris, the collection of puzzling behavioural cues both men had exhibited since returning to Santa Barbara formed clear lines in her mind. She sipped at her soup and smiled to herself. If Henry couldn't figure out Shawn's sudden passion for hours alone on a boat with Carlton then he wasn't nearly as good a detective he thought he was.

An hour later Lassiter emerged from the file room and walked into the bullpen.

"Still here, O'Hara?" He looked down at his partner and then glanced at his watch. It was way past quitting time.

She nodded glumly. "I'm still only three-quarters of the way through these documents from Vargas' place," She said, waving a hand at a stack of folders on her desk. She frowned at a small handful of receipts. "He sure buys a lot of something called Wet Platimum. Any idea what that is?" Lassiter scooped the stack of folders into his arms and hugged them to his chest.

"I'll review these," he said. "You go home."

"Are you sure?" Juliet hesitated, unwilling to believe that Lassiter, the kind of delegating unpleasant work, was actually willing to take on the mind-numbingly dull task.

"I have to work overtime anyway," he explained. "I'm taking a three-day weekend. For fishing."

"That's great, Carlton." Juliet smiled. "You know, I have to say, buying that boat has really improved your mood."

"Yes it has," Lassiter agreed.

"You know," Juliet said hopefully, "I'm pretty good at fishing too. If you ever need an extra hand on board…"

Lassiter looked at her with surprise for a moment before regaining his composure. "Thanks for the offer, O'Hara,"he said. "But I don't really think of you that way." He returned to his desk, leaving her to wonder what he could have possibly meant.


End file.
